David Fincher’s The Killer, reviewed.

★★★★☆

“Stick to the plan. Anticipate, don’t improvise” narrates Michael Fassbender’s killer. Whether the killer likes it or not, improvising is something he will have to dabble with. As for David Fincher, he indeed sticks to the plan. This graphic novel adaptation is a meticulous thriller that is taut in every way possible.

The killer is on a hit job in Paris, but after failing to fulfil the act he has been paid to do – move he must. So follows a rigid and chaptered structure of storytelling, as Fassbender’s killer globe trots from one guest star to the next. He seeks revenge upon finding his punishment for failure… disagreeable.

Alongside Fassbender is Tilda Swinton, Charles Parnell and Sala Baker, who is especially a beastly delight. A brawl sequence between Fassbender and Baker is choreographed to feel so raw and brutal. This is refreshing at a time the elegant sheen of John Wick begins to wear thin. Fassbender’s approach to his performance matches the film’s tone in its restrained nature.

After Mank, Fincher wanted to go back to what he was really good at. He chose to stick to the plan, that plan might not be the one he made for himself, but it’s the one he’s good at. The Killer is a self-reflective, personally meditative piece of filmmaking. It’s so self-reflective and metatextual in its use of Fincher’s techniques that it becomes comical.

The Killer chooses a route not too dissimilar to Rear Window in a voyeuristic nature. It allows itself to sit, to breath, to watch, it recognises the reality of the profession for a hitman is doing exactly that. Thrills are earned through patience and creative discipline, not grenades of gratuitous gimmicks.

Incorporating an array of songs by The Smiths into the music here was an audacious choice. Such choice had a high favourability of being a jarring stunt, but the diegetic fusion of the songs means they melt into the film’s DNA immediately. What we hear, the killer hears – and what he happens to hear is Morrisey blurting a baritone whine about the world. Upon wide release of The Killer, wait until a vast swathe of young men will (suddenly) pronounce themselves (long-time) fans of The Smiths. That’s (not) going to be fun.

It’s troublesome that for a project that is the grail of amalgamation from this renowned filmmaker, The Killer is bound to leave little cultural impact. Gone Girl had a rabid feminist messiah as villain, this has a guy who likes The Smiths. There’s an underlying hollowness to the affair throughout. That metatextuality should have been put to more use in acknowledging its own self-reflectiveness as being self-importance.

The Killer acts as a critique of the very characteristic it displays in itself – cold meticulousness. It’s about one man’s journey of learning to be a part of this world, rather than live above and outside of it. For being one of the many is superior to being one of the few. In the end, he’s human and needs to be loved. Just like everybody else does.